


The Last One

by Desdimonda



Category: Naruto, Naruto Shippuden
Genre: Biting, Blood, Body Worship, KakaObi Week 2019, M/M, Memories, Obito Uchiha’s Scars, POV Hatake Kakashi, Uchiha Obito Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 17:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: It’s Kakashi’s birthday and he’s happy, seeing Obito laugh and smile some since the war. While he watches, thinking about his scars that shift and move with his smile, a memory comes to him of one of their firsts, and that not all scars hold bad memories.





	The Last One

It’s the first ones he got that everyone is allowed to see. They’re curved this way and that into his face, razed and roved, a piece that become a puzzle then a piece again depending which way you look. Or touch. Or the way he smiles. 

He smiles tonight. He laughs. It feels like he  _ really  _ does. And it shows on his face, making the scars seem like they’re okay, and that they belong. Because they do, despite being the ones Kakashi couldn’t stop; being the ones that hold his failings, faults, fears, and tears. In truth, every scar he holds, does. 

Or do they.

 

_ It was the way the moonlight licked his neck as he stood by the window, head bowed, casually flicking through his journal. Word by unlooked word spilled to that paper because he couldn’t say them to Kakashi.  _

_ But he longed to hear. _

_ He just, longed. _

_ “I can feel you watch me,” said Obito, fingers kneading his neck, pearled by the moonlight. _

 

He hasn’t laughed this much since his return. It makes the rest of Kakashi’s birthday gifts feel inconsequential every time he smiles. It’s the smallest gathering in years, and it’s because of that smile, but he’d have no-one here, if it meant he’d have, him. 

To Obito’s left is Naruto, his voice the more gravely and loud the tired he gets. On Obito’s left cheek is another scar, a mark, a marr, given by Naruto when he shattered his mask, shedding his lies. Where Kakashi saw beauty in the scars on the right, in that small, insignificant mark that paled beneath the light, it had been one of the hardest things to love.

 

_ He hadn’t watched for long.  _

_ He moved. He moved, with longing. With love. With a trepidation that hung from the tips of his fingers, heavy and hot, as he stood a breath before his lover, bathed in the morning moon as it lit his skin, igniting his crisp white hair.  _

_ They were first loves - but new lovers. Oldest friends - but strangers. Where they turned left, everything else was right.  _

_ Except tonight.  _

_ Kakashi drew his thumb along the scar on his left cheek, remembering the first time he saw this face. _

 

Obito glances over at Kakashi, feeling his eyes. His smile changes. He scratches his neck. 

The scar there begins, and never seems to end. It defines him in two. Right, where he was put back together, and left, which was what survived. He never speaks of the cave. Of Madara. Of Zetsu. Kakashi often wonders what’s etched in those lines from top to tail; from east, to west. It should have been something good for him. His life, returned. Not groomed. 

Kakashi tries to kiss them, to touch them, to change them into something good. But it isn’t his right to dictate when, and where. 

And it isn’t his right to say what isn’t good.

 

_ Desperate fingers scrambled for something. Anything. They found the table’s edge, knocking his journal flat to the floor. He’d knock their house to the ground in this moment and he wouldn’t blink.  _

_ Obito hoisted himself to the table, scattering what was left. Back met window, a sharp breath in, as skin met cold. Touch always felt different on his mended flesh in comparison to the body he was allowed to keep. _

_ Except Kakashi.  _

_ Kakashi’s touch always felt right. Everywhere. _

_ He’d never told him. The words were scrawled in his journal a hundred times. Over. Over. But they were so hard to just, say. They were stuck on his lips. Bound.  _

_ When he kissed, like now, he hoped that he could taste them on his tongue. But he was afraid they were lost - lost in the roar of his desire. It was so loud, it frightened him sometimes.  _

_ Except tonight. _

 

Kakashi walks by to get another drink, but he walks slow, forgetting entirely about another drink. His hand finds Obito’s essy hair. White. Another mark on his changed body. One so visible, yet as a scar, not so. Others simply see an aesthetic change. But every shed white hair, every unfamiliar face in a mirror was a reminder he’d become not just someone else, but  _ something else.  _

He told him about the nightmares of Rin, of the boulder, of the cave. But he’d never told him about the nightmares of being a Jinchuuriki despite Kakashi hearing him dream about it, endlessly. 

Was the deepest scar the one he’d given himself?

_ Or the ones I gave you. _

It took Kakashi a while to discern them, but he found the ones on his skin he’d made. The First’s cells had washed away some, but others remained. Charred forks from bites of his chidori flecked his arm; on his chest carried the starkest reminder. But from that fight, Kakashi held the loudest etching. One that Obito refused to let himself forget.

He sometimes spent hours with just his hand on the cross as they sat on the sofa, or curled up against it, palms to stomach, until he fell asleep. He wouldn’t let himself have any pleasure until he touched it either. His penance, his reminder of how close he’d come to having nothing, when now, he had - nearly - everything.

Everything.

 

_ As always, as always, Obito dragged his fingers along Kakashi’s scar, a whimper passing Kakashi’s lips as he fell to his knees. He was impatient. He was needy. He was.  _

_ He was. _

_ The cold air washed Obito’s skin as his trousers were ripped away, meeting the floor by Kakashi’s knees. The table shook. Obito bit his lip. He tasted the tang of blood swell against his tongue. _

_ For some reason lately, for some want, Kakashi’s favourite vantage was on his knees, looking up, up at Obito.  _

_ Obito had wanted to bend the moon to his will, and somehow, he had. Not the way he intended, but the way he deserved. Every which way he moved at night, when in full bloom, even when it waned, the threads of its light whispering through the leaves, it followed him. It painted his white hair, pearl; it eased his scars to scores; he was lover and loved. _

 

The loudest of scars were the ones no-one could see.

Kakashi supposed it was always like that. Didn’t he have an array beneath his skin that he refused to address, too? With Obito, he already knew. It was almost a mirror what lay beneath. Loss. Grief. Guilt, as they twisted their survival into something else. 

Mistakes. A fathom, of mistakes. If someone opens him up, would they find flesh and bone, or black and stone?

Some days he wakes up and forgets what is beneath, simply because what is above. A pair of red eyes that never really want to turn off; white hair, once black, that buries itself in the crook of his neck; long, thick limbs incessantly restless that prod and scratch and lean and load; and a voice, that doesn’t shut up.

And he hopes, never will.

Kakashi leans at the back of the sofa, tips of his fingers brushing against the bumps of Obito’s spine. He’s kissed there so often, blind, remembering the grind, the dance of bone beneath skin as he moves, guided, ignited. 

The touch that meets his hand, makes him remember. He expects it to be light. But it’s tight. Fingernails push into his skin, marking it white. As he talks, the faintest quiver in his voice is so loud to Kakashi.

He breathes. And breathes.

 

_ Time. Time was given, taken, suspended, lost. But now, time was theirs. Whatever remained, they held in their palms, the grains falling away a breath at a time. But it was okay. _

_ Because they fell away together. _

_ Time. Time was on his lips tonight. They graced Obito’s thighs, feeling the power move beneath as he did, reacting, acting to years of unfelt love. His skin here was mostly unblemished. Smooth. Strong. Kakashi spread his hand over the skin, brushing it with his touch. _

_ He kissed. He kissed.  _

_ He dragged his teeth along his flesh, feeling, understanding how it moved beneath.  _

_ Obito’s back hit the window; his voice hit Kakashi’s ears.  _

_ Kakashi smiled. He smiled a yield; a yield, to his lover. _

_ He dragged a canine. Harder.  _

_ “Harder.”  _

_ Harder.  _

_ Obito moaned. He moaned a howl; a howl, to the moon. _

_ Teeth pressed, pushed, until they broke flesh. Fingers held, steadying his restless, uneven body as pleasure ravaged him, tip, to toe. Holding him with his teeth, feeling the hot weep of blood against his lips, Kakashi looked up.  _

_ Their room, was black. No lights were left, but the sky. But the brightest light of all, breathed. His eyelids were heavy, long lashes tipped red as he looked down, painting everything to memory, forever. Forever. It was so rare that Obito closed his eyes. It was so rare, they were not red. The Sharingan gave you an unforgiving memory. Writing, re-writing for you moments to re-live again, again. _

_ And again. _

_ Obito’s fingers dropped from the curtain he had been pulling, and instead pulled on his length, as he watched, as he felt, letting his voice, command. _

_ “Why have you stopped?” _

_ Kakashi licked his lips. _

 

“You want a drink?” asks Kakashi lightly against his ear, his fingers still tracing the bumps of his spine, as if making sure it’s still there.

“Always,” he quivers, glancing to the side as he feels him leave.

The kitchen isn’t empty. It never is at a party. A drunk Tsunade is loudly arguing with a drunk Genma. Although, the loud is on her side, while he stands by the open back door, chewing on a bread roll, occasionally nodding. Neither of them notice the birthday boy as he leans against the counter, grabbing a bottle of whisky. It’s bite and burn has become familiar over the last year.

He feels a hand on his back.

So has that hand.

Obito nudges in at his side, leaning against his lover, lips to ear. “You’re quiet.”

“Just remembering.”

Obito scratches the scar on his lip. “Oh? It’s not usually a good sign when people remember around me.”

Lightly, his hand slides between Obito’s legs and touches his inside thigh. It traces the first bite; the first time; remembering the way he moved, and moaned and loved and lived, bathed beneath the the moon he at last commanded to his will, the light pulsing to every breath, every, breath.

Kakashi kisses him, tasting the wine on his lips. “You sure?”

Not every scar holds their faults, their fails, their fears, and tears.


End file.
